If It Ain't Broke, Don't Fix It
by MalkyTop
Summary: Sanji punches someone in the face and it's exactly who you think it is. Rated for language.


Well, this certainly was a _party._

The entire town was in on it. All the shops were closed for the night, unheard of in a city like this, the streets were mobbed with people, and he could hear aggressively joyous music above all the noise. The local brewery had declared all booze to be free tonight, and once the brewer saw just how much Zoro and Nami alone could guzzle, she promptly started drinking as well. Everybody seemed to be dancing or eating or joking or clapping, doing something to express as much jubilation as they could, as though making up for all the years spent within a tragedy. There was absolutely no room for guilt or mourning for the time that was wasted under the rule of a tyrant.

All in all, a typical Straw Hat party.

Zoro chugged something like his nineteenth mug. He wasn't drunk, of course, but Sanji was. The blond had gotten through probably three drinks before almost falling out of his seat, laughing at something in his own head. What a fucking lightweight. That's what you get from insisting on the fruity shit instead of _real_ alcohol.

Sanji's presence kept throwing Zoro off, however, and he found himself glancing over to his idiot crewmate every few seconds. It was a surprise the damn cook was even hanging around at the bar instead of schmoozing up someone's wife or some stupid shit like that, but when the brewer finally drank herself under the table, Sanji's motivations became clear as he leaned himself up on his feet and started leading her away to a private place where she wouldn't be trampled. Or at least tried to, but his legs bowed like reeds in a gale and he tumbled into a wall and fell over, laughing his ass off even as he apologized to the barely-coherent brewer who was ready to just sleep on the floor. And okay, maybe Zoro was a little drunk, because instead of scoffing at the damn womanizer and turning away, he actually got up and helped (carried) them to their destination.

Sanji clapped a palm on Zoro's chest and ended up smacking his chin. "Hey, the seaweed's good for somethin' after all!" The brewer mumbled what could have been the secret of the universe for all anybody knew and promptly snored. She didn't have the kind of figure that Sanji fawned over, but he left his coat draped over her regardless and the two stumbled back out in the buzz of the crowd that could have simply been the buzz in their heads. The latter was more likely, considering the hour and the way they kept tripping over bodies littering the ground in uncomfortable positions. Even the music was starting to sound like it had made a few recent regrets before stuttering to a halt as the musicians decided to pile on their stage instead.

Sanji didn't go back to the bar, and Zoro must have been _really_ drunk because he didn't immediately throw his arm off his shoulders and tromp back to the booze calling his name. Instead, he kept the bastard upright even when it seemed like he was trying his best to familiarize himself with gravity and the two set off on a mysterious journey punctuated by Sanji tripping over nothing. The cook was leading, but even he didn't seem like he knew where he was going and sometimes they had to stop because he would insist on stealing some poor guy's coat in order to throw it over a nearby woman.

"What about that guy?" Zoro asked, eyeing someone who had apparently lost his shirt in the chaos.

Sanji swayed on his feet. "Fuck him," he declared before hopping into Zoro's back. "Carry me."

Zoro wasn't _that_ drunk, and he dropped Sanji on the ground. The cook lay there for a moment. "Asshole."

"If you're just gonna use me to carry you to every woman out on the street, then you can walk yourself."

"Nooooooooo," Sanji whined, feebly tugging at Zoro's pants. "I'm on a _culinary mission._"

Zoro absolutely did not let this deter him from walking back to the bar, but the fact that Sanji kept hanging on even as he was being dragged over the cobblestone made him pause. "What the fuck is that supposed to even _mean._"

"It means _take me to that cafe right now._"

It was a little hard figuring out where Sanji was pointing to because he was face-flat on the ground and he was ridiculously shitfaced, but under the brightening sky, Zoro could make out a quaint, lacy sign that said, creatively, 'Cafe.' He looked back down at the cook. "It's probably closed."

"Then we'll _break the windows_ and _leave money for repairs,_" said Sanji.

"Neither of us have money right now."

"Then we'll _break the windows_ and _leave someone else's money for repairs._"

Luckily, they did not have to resort to vandalism for the owner seemed to have left the door unlocked, and as soon as the bell hanging over the door rang, Sanji sprang up like a man possessed by the god of food and leapt over the counter. Zoro decided to take a seat and watch the show, even as the racket Sanji made was starting to give him a headache. As the cook gave himself an impromptu lesson on the organization of some random cafe, Zoro's elbow slid down until his forehead found the cool surface of the counter and he couldn't tell whether he was sleeping or not.

"Where the fucking fuck are the _bananas,_" Sanji shouted, and Zoro decided he was probably not sleeping at all. The swordsman moved his head so that he was resting on his cheek rather than his nose.

"Why the hell do you need bananas," Zoro droned.

"For the fucking amazing _drink_ I'm gonna make, shithead!" And with that explanation, Sanji continued fumbling among the shelves. Even drunk, he looked a natural in a kitchen, but the way he walked made him look like he was oozing his way around instead, like some sort of reluctantly eager slug. He was starting to lose steam the longer he had to search, though, and the clanging really didn't bode well. Zoro glanced towards the glass display next to him.

"What about banana nut muffins?"

Sanji spun around, overshot his goal, and spun around again. "You always got my back, marimo," he said very solemnly before sliding open the glass display and sweeping about ten muffins into his arms. There was a distinct sound of blending and Zoro almost fell asleep to that when it occurred to him that _maybe_ Sanji shouldn't be taking his advice about _anything_ food-related.

"Uh," he said, blearily jolting upward right as Sanji slammed a glass down in front of him. It sloshed something that was somehow green and brown at the same time. "Uh," Zoro repeated, blinking at the beverage apparition.

"Drink it," Sanji commanded, and Zoro drank it because he was not someone who said no to free drinks.

It was fucking delicious.

"What the fuck," he said, squinting down at the rest of the glass. "How did you do that?"

Sanji just grinned and turned away, mumbling, "Gotta write that one down." There was a receipt pad tucked near the register and he scrawled something on it that didn't look like any word that Zoro knew, didn't even look like a picture of anything, before he reverently tucked it into his back pocket. Zoro drank the rest of the glass and looked around.

"Should we get bananas before we leave?"

"Don't be an idiot," Sanji replied, digging for something in his pockets and dropping all his cigarettes instead. He successfully kept one in his hand, however, and so he lit up and instantly filled the cafe with his scent. The smoke in combination with the lingering smell of booze almost made Zoro a little wary, and a little surprised that Sanji hadn't simply gone up in flames. "Bananas are bad luck."

Zoro blinked. "Then maybe we should leave you behind."

Sanji laughed so hard that he disappeared behind the counter and didn't get up again. Zoro decided to show his concern by leaning over the other side. "You'd be so fucking useless in a fight right now."

"What? Shut up. Nobody's fighting. Fight's over."

"Like seriously," Zoro continued, sitting back down because his head had suddenly gotten all dizzy, "if someone took out your legs, or there was some woman, or some woman took out your legs, you be like..._so_ fucking useless."

He heard Sanji slide up against the wall into a sitting position. "What? No. Fuck you."

"You can't even throw a punch to save your life," Zoro pointed out, raising his glass again before remembering that he already drained it. Disappointing. "All you can do is kick, kick, kick...I can think of _tons_ of ways to stop _that._"

"Oh yeah? All _you_ do is, like, _slice_ shit. Big whoop!"

"Yeah, but even without my swords, I got No Sword Style."

Zoro watched the smoke from Sanji's cigarette curl languorously towards the ceiling. "_No_ Sword Style. You're a fucking loser."

"A fucking loser who'll save your ass one day 'cause you're a one-trick pony."

"Oh _hell_ no." Sanji stood up like a man possessed by something not very good at standing up. He wobbled a little, set his hands on the counter for a spell to wait out the vertigo, and then jabbed a finger at Zoro's forehead. "Why're you even talking about this foreboding shit, huh? You _want_ someone to wreck my legs, asshole?"

"Iunno," Zoro mumbled, trying to swat away Sanji's hand but finding it hard to aim. "Just thinkin' 'bout shit."

"Well _stop_ thinking. You keep doing your sword thing and I'll keep doing my kick thing and we're golden, alright?"

"Maybe you should punch me just in case."

Sanji stared hard at him in the middle of sitting back down. "That's the weirdest fucking sentence you've said all night. Why."

It occurred to Zoro that this might've been a weird thing to insist on if even Sanji, drunk as hell, was commenting on it, but he wasn't anything if not incredibly stubborn. "I just wanna know you can, like, punch if you really need to. Like, if someone chained your legs and was coming at you with, like, a knife. C'mon."

"What the fuck would my _fists_ do against a _knife,_" Sanji said, but his brow furrowed in contemplation.

"Don't tell me this is some other bad luck bullshit."

Sanji's shoulders rankled, which was a good sign, but his face was firmly set in the 'I know I'm drunk, but I'm not _stupid' _category.

"Wait," Zoro said, and he almost had to laugh. "Have you even thrown a punch in your _life?_"

"_Yeah,_" Sanji shot back, sounding almost hurt, because what self-respecting boy _didn't_ punch, like, things and stuff? But both of them knew the answer was unconvincing as hell and Zoro allowed himself a smug smile.

"Prove it."

Sanji took a deep breath, looked at his hands, and then threw a right hook at Zoro's goddamn chin.

Zoro slid off his chair, bounced once, but was not that much worse for the wear. He rubbed what was surely going to be a bruise in the morning and grunted. "Not bad," he admitted, nodding in solemn acknowledgment of Sanji's manhood.

Sanji had managed to throw himself halfway over the counter with the momentum of his punch and he hadn't bothered moving from his spot. Zoro saw that he was cradling his hand and looking like he was staring at someone's grave. Frankly, he expected the stupid cook to crow about the hit he landed.

"What's up?"

Sanji didn't look up. "I think. Maybe. We need to find Chopper."

There were a few things Zoro learned within the next hour, as they scoured the remains of the party for the tiny doctor. Mostly, he learned that hands were made up of really tiny bones that were shit at staying together if they happened to hit something hard (like Zoro's face) with an improperly-made fist. And people weren't likely to make their fists right if they hadn't punched anything in over twelve years and also they happened to be drunk at the same time.

Breakfast on the ship was an unusually solemn affair, and it wasn't because of the hangovers. Nobody spoke at all as Sanji circled around the tables, sliding plates of omurice in front of their bowed heads. Only Zoro dared to keep his head raised, but he only dared enough to stare straight ahead, never once looking up at Sanji's face. He only caught a glimpse of Sanji's bandaged hand as the cook stepped by and, uncharacteristically, left the dinner table in favor of a private room.

While the rest of the crew's omurice were neatly wrapped, Zoro's looked like a dissection gone wrong. Fried rice spilled everywhere in a neatly grotesque arrangement. And on top, where Sanji would have usually done some useless swirly ketchup decoration, there was instead a bunch of shaky blood-red letters spelling out, 'FUCKER.'

It was delicious.


End file.
